


Gold-paved Quicksand

by Girl_chama



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén, Fallen Hero: Rebirth (Video Game)
Genre: (or the attempt at action), Action/Adventure, F/M, Flirting while hurting, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-28
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-12-25 14:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18263159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Girl_chama/pseuds/Girl_chama
Summary: "Get in, get out, the Rangers get their man.  I get pizza."This is not how Sidestep saw this day going.-Post-Nanosurge, pre-Heartbreaker - I just wanted a hug, not a 6k monster.





	Gold-paved Quicksand

The phone buzzed once beneath her fingers before falling inanimate again. Once was all she needed. Immediately she dropped her eyes from the television down to the message.

 

E. SU.

 

A few keystrokes from her and she glanced back at the TV.

 

omw

 

Sliding away from the table, she grabbed her backpack from between her feet and sidled through the other crowding patrons before making her way to the bathroom. No one’s eyes were on her. No one’s thoughts were anywhere near. Everyone was glued to the news. Only a few minutes later she vacated the premises in a different silhouette and cut through the streets on wheels belonging to an average woman.

 

The grey world stood still as she sped by. Traffic was almost deadlocked a few blocks out. Still, when cars were almost too tightly wedged, she nudged drivers' thoughts and sifted her way past. She checked her phone again as she came to a stop at the bottom of the off ramp. Twenty-three minutes since the initial text. She took a deep breath and gripped the handlebars tightly to forestall twitching.

 

She propped the bike in an alley next a dumpster that smelled like soured milk. Throwing a few broken down cardboard pieces over the vehicle, she trotted out into the streets, making her way toward the epicenter.

 

Even on the periphery the damage was... significant. Squatting, her black gloved fingers hovered over the gnarled remains of a bus stop bench. The other half was still in tact, slats untouched, but the twisted bits were suspended, no longer melting. Her fingers froze just shy of touching. There was a damp stain of something on the ground beneath it. Maybe blood. Behind her ribs, her heart pounded, and she forcefully relaxed her face, filled her lungs, and counted to five on the exhale.

 

A splitting screech of metal on metal tried to rattle her calm, but one of the reasons the Rangers valued her, whether they knew it or not, was for her focus. Echoes of fighting lathed her concern down to a sharp edge of readiness. She stood. Seconds later the bench maintained its ghastly witness silently, abandoned.

 

At the corner of what had, years before, been West 12th and Figueroa, she pressed her back against a skyscraper that shaded the alley and half of the street before her. Vehicles were in disarray in both directions, doors still hanging open, and the longer she looked at them the more easily she could make out the mottled spots of disfigurement the bench had suffered. Not just metal, but rubber, concrete planters. Shit- what _was_ that stuff? Still, she could see no bodies, civilian or otherwise, hear no panicked pleas. In time with her breathing, she curled her fingers against her temple, the familiar mnemonic helping to lower her shields.

 

One.

 

Two.

 

The second was faint, just on the edge of recognition. Enough to label as familiar. Steel.

 

Two familiar minds on the field. A third, the edge of their consciousness against hers like a serrated knife, like holding her finger over a candle a shade too long. She exhaled, unconsciously blowing off the heat. She bowed her head and sought the thoughts of the players like echolocation. There was a patch of static suddenly close to her, and she heard, really heard the sizzling _snap_! of electrical discharge. The static slipped away again, and it seemed like she would not have to try too hard to find Charge.

 

 _Here_ , was the thought she broadcast to the original two and felt something adjacent to relief in response. A flash of freckled arm caught her attention as she opened her eyes and darted out into the wide street, eyes searching for threats.

 

She ducked down behind a car next to Anathema, who nodded in greeting, “Sidesteeeep. Nice to see you.”

 

“Nice to be seen,” she reflexed, but the vocal distortion turned the words into a myriad of voices along an indiscernible spectrum.

 

“Ah-” Anathema paused, eyes fixed. “Seems like the signal for the minions is remote.”

 

“Minions. Signal. Got it. Any demands?”

 

“Not unless you count hitting the medical startup there on the corner.”

 

“Not the bank?” Sidestep clarified. West coast treasuries were no longer FDIC insured, so while security was extreme they were also less likely to expose cash to movement. Each physical location was a small Fort Knox. At the question, Anathema shrugged, almost rolling her eyes.

 

“ _I_ was at the coffee shop, trying to buy a whole milk latte, thanks very much.” She shook her head as her eyes returned to the battlefield. “It’s double star day, and I was five away from a reward. Meltdown got some kind of tech and took off to install it, I guess, and if they are still steaming my milk, it’s way past caramelized. If she had been alone, maybe I could have stopped her, but she’s got a hench, and he is _super_ strong.” For the first time, Sidestep noticed the slow ooze of blood down Anathema’s back, bright red against her blue leotard.

 

“You’re bleeding,” she announced firmly.

 

“That? Pfft.” The Ranger glanced back awkwardly and then shrugged without wincing. “I see more blood than that on my period. Meltdown disappeared somewhere.” Sidestep stared until she found her voice again.

 

“You said her name’s ‘Meltdown’?”

 

“She didn’t give us a name. But that’s what I’m thinking about submitting to the _Confidential_ for consideration when this is over.”

 

“…seems ballsy for somebody so reticent…”

 

“Ha,” Anathema barked. “Sounds like someone else I know.”

 

 _Touche_.

 

“Why aren’t we in pursuit?”

 

“Aside from needing a minute to catch you up?” the redhead shot back. Beneath her mask, a frown persisted, but she did not rise to the bait at the edge of Anathema’s mind. _If she had been there already. If she would just join the Rangers._ Half-formed thoughts, but the speeches were so consistent that she could fill in the gaps. The words went unspoken. Instead, Anathema continued, “Charge is handling the ‘bots. If she’s close enough to be controlling them, she’s splitting her attention. Theft is only the working theory, but this is a little drawn out for revenge. Not sure what she took, though. Communication is out on the block- another reason we know the bots are remote- they’re still working. And did I say that hench is super strong? We’re still looking for his weaknesses.”

 

As if summoned, Steel rolled past them, feet over head with an unpleasant crunch before his toes managed to catch asphalt. In a wash of grey color, Sidestep watched his hips and knees flex, internal gears responding faster than she could imagine- for a split second his eyes turned, one dark pupil fixed on her- then and he was up and gone, back into the fray before she could react.

 

“Shit,” Anathema muttered, also witness to the hit. Empathy quickly cleared as her disciplined thoughts tightened.

 

“Is scraping the ground Steel’s method of scanning?” Sidestep quipped, watching Charge parkour off of the corner of the coffee shop. Anathema smirked, and the Marshal finished dropping a hook punch onto a hip-high box on wheels. Was _that_ the robot giving them trouble? It looked homemade…

 

Anathema countered, “We can’t all read minds. If you’ve got something, feel free to share.”

 

Gesturing at her ear piece, Sidestep calmly said, “Get the others on the line to regroup.” Anathema pulled the lightly coiled wire from behind her ear, holding it between them, eyes still roving.

 

“Charge, Steel, we’ve got Sidestep.”

 

“You’re _LATE_!” Anathema grinned, even as she winced. Sidestep found the Marshal on the battlefield. Already turned to face her, he spared just enough time for a one-fingered salute before returning to the fight with a POP.

 

“Attacks during rush hour don’t magically clear out traffic,” she shot back at the receiver.

 

“F the 405,” he barked, then laughed a laugh that carried across the street, and she smiled despite herself. “Glad you’re here, anyway. What you got?”

 

“I can tag in for Steel to engage the minion- if he has half a brain, I can intuit enough to keep him busy. Steel can take over for Charge, who can go after Meltdown, zap the phone, recover the goods, the Rangers get their man. I get pizza.”

 

“Why doesn’t Charge short them?” Steel grunted.

 

“Tried,” the Marshal answered, huffing. “Thinking they’ve got insulated chassis.” His words came around breaths as he dodged and attacked.

 

“Hopefully they won’t be resistant to what Themmy can dish out,” Sidestep interjected, watching the Ranger in arms’ reach of her.

 

“Themmy?” she mouthed back.

 

Sidestep grinned and continued, “She can lay out a trap that Steel can lure them into. While they’re occupied, Charge can finish with Meltdown.” After a moment that felt longer than it was, the two men breathlessly agreed.

 

That was all she needed to hear. Trained to act, Sidestep sprinted toward Steel, before Anathema could say anything. As she neared, she felt the blazing presence from before, and now she could see the face atop that roaring mind. The hench looked as strong as Anathema had insisted he was, tall and bald, muscles as round as the smooth surface of his head. She grabbed the seat tube of an abandoned bike share and chucked it at his distracted head. She was not very strong, and she had closed the distance between them in order to lob the projectile, but even as she recovered her balance, he caught it by the front wheel. Slowly, he lowered it to a comfortable level and grinned at her. There had not been much thought to the reaction at all. Shit.

 

At her side Steel was panting, eyes still fixed on his combatant.

 

“He has a very well trained superior colliculus,” she muttered to the Ranger, who caught the revolved bike with a solid forearm as it was thrown back at them, twice as fast as she had managed. The bike clattered noisily to the street. Shit, indeed.

 

“Good luck with whatever super colic is,” Steel said by way of departure, already darting off to relieve Charge. She grimaced, sarcastic thanks caught in her throat.

 

Slowly she paced outward, measuring her steps as if nearing an uncaged lion. The villain grinned at her with a surprisingly similar set of teeth. He jerked his chin in her direction.

 

“J’mappelle Pickup.”

 

“Really?” she asked, sounding flat even through the distorters, a moment of surprise underscored by the way his grin grew.

 

He spoke French. Singularly? Or could he understand English?

 

“Qui tu?”

 

“Ne suis pas quelqu'un d'important.” His face seemed to shrug, the rest of his body still. This was familiar, the coil of muscle and energy as he prepared for movement.

 

“Tu petit,” he continued, laughing like a car engine that was trying but could not start.

 

“Ouais. Tu grand.”

 

Pickup laughed again and she took a sudden step back, realizing that he was reaching for the jar behind him seconds before he took it from his belt. Her mask washed the world into black, white, and every grey between. While fighting she could not identify colors she had not seen before. Decreased visual input was a necessary trade off for increased telepathic output, reading every intention. It was how she knew what he hoped to accomplish as he shook the fist size container between them. Inside the contents sloshed like mercury, and she remembered the bus bench. His thoughts confirmed what it could do to skin.

 

He feinted left, darting like a snake despite such a heavy body, then committed right. She mirrored, reaching for the energy caster tucked at the small of her back as she tried to keep the distance between them. Yet his steps were longer and he knew the terrain he had created. He launched the clear vessel as she fired. She did not like killing people; taunting, teasing, enraging, sure, but her weapon was never set at a high enough frequency to destroy. With just enough force to bat it back at him, it caught the vial’s edge, and she realized he had been lucky with the bicycle. The jar caught him in the ear and shattered like a soap bubble.

 

She watched as the not-mercury clung to him, smearing across his temple and over his scalp. Smoking curled and skin blistered where it grasped. He screamed ferociously, spinning and almost ready to try and scrape his skin before seeming to realize what it would do to his hands. Instead he whirled until he found her. Refusing to let the pain master him, two cavernous huffs billowed from his chest and his eyes narrowed.

 

He marched toward a stalled out car. It had hit the median hard enough to dent the hood, which, as she watched in fascination he peeled away from the body like skin from a fruit. Anathema had not told her he was modded, but she should have guessed. He gave not a thought to the machines reinforcing his bones, only that he was stronger, better than this masked rat in front of him.

 

“Pourquoi es-tu né?” she attempted, trying to defuse some of that rage before it could come down on her. The hand wrapped around the car’s hood tightened, as pained frustration warred with confusion on his face. “No, I mean, pourquoi es-tu ici?” Six years since she had used French on any regular basis, and that had been mostly in controlled environments.

 

“Arrêter parler!” he roared, either at the limit of patience or brain power. It did not much matter as she desperately tucked her legs to her chest to avoid the warbling hood that frisbeed violently beneath her. She touched down with one foot, tensing before the other found the street, timing her deflection with his action. Where to move she understood, and intent was beyond language, but he was faster than she had given Steel credit. He was ready with a tree branch he had plucked from over his head, bigger around than her arm, and began swinging it wildly in any way that might reach her. She took turns between aerials and somersaults, but he pressed. If it was a test of endurance, she already knew who would win. If it was a test of tenacity, well, she would just have to show him that she was more cockroach than rat.

 

When it became clear that he would not reach her with the branch, he tossed it aside, impaling a car window. A vision of what might happen to her skull overtook her for a second. Sidestep grunted, backpedaling furiously as he suddenly tried again to close the distance between them, this time no desire other than to crush her. Her back hit a car and she ducked as his fist came down where her head had been, darting aside and back toward the median. A roll over her shoulder and she came to a crouch staring up at him, while his fury nipped at her consciousness like a knife.

 

A bench from the sidewalk tore free in his hands like a normal person might pick up a shopping basket, and she stalled with appreciation. Then, he too stalled, staring at something behind her shoulder. A deflection? No, he was not subtle. She cut to his nine o’clock and glanced at what had caught his attention. One of the automatons had somehow submerged half of its body in the street. It was still trying to make headway toward Steel, but was only digging itself in deeper, shearing and grinding the street with every attempt. A surge of satisfaction radiated from Anathema like a radio at full volume. Sidestep breathed and then rolled into a backward somersault.

 

She had barely recognized and understood Pickup’s renewed assault before he had swung the bench at her. It more grazed her than made full contact, but her ribs and knees were smarting from the attempt as she caught her balance in a crouch. Lesson learned.

 

The sound of breaking glass overhead caught both of their attention, but she held fast. She would not make that mistake again.

 

Yet, a second later, she could not help but stare at the body that landed between them with an attentive thud, smoke smoldering at the corners of a flak vest and cargo pants. A phone lay a few yards away from the body, crushed and flickering before it faded to black. Sidestep’s eyes darted up where Charge was backing away from a broken window.

 

Pickup screamed with rage and concern. He moved to grab the downed woman when a _whoosh_ over her head buffeted her hood. Spinning like a top, one of the robots hit the henchman square in the face, knocking him off of his feet. Behind her, Steel looked very satisfied with himself. She turned back quickly. Muscular arms jerkily moved for the robot until Anathema appeared like a gust of wind, gingerly setting a hand atop the inert form that pinned him. Its body began to twist and deform under her hand, and Pickup, wide eyes transfixed, flattened his arms against the street in blatant submission.

 

Steel stepped up beside her then, sweating and breathing heavily, but he looked as content as she had ever seen. Together they looked down at who she presumed was Meltdown. God, it had better be, or Charge was going to be in deep shit. Her bare, dusky arms were unmarred, and her legs looked normal sized. The normal appearance kind of undercut Anathema’s stolen hardware theory. Maybe she was Boosted? No thoughts came from her now, only silence, and the mystery persisted.

 

Charge appeared a few seconds later, stepping over the body. He was still catching his breath, too, but like Steel would be recovered soon.

 

“You were late,” he reiterated by way of greeting. Sidestep slowly glanced over her shoulder, but, yep, no one behind her, and then looked back at him. He was not amused.

 

With a shrug, she answered, “Pawns, Charge. Only the Queen gets to say where she goes and how fast she gets there.”

 

He opened his mouth to disagree, to begin the usual recruitment speech, when Sidestep felt a lurch of confusion that did not belong to her. Her eyes found Anathema, looking intently at Pickup, still sprawled on the ground while Steel inspected the anchoring bot. Not them, but- confusion honed into a sharp focus, and-

 

Sidestep’s shoulder found Charge’s sternum, heaving him back a long step before could right himself.

 

Her eyes corrected in time to see the small bottle break against her forehead, Meltdown’s fingers splayed wide only a few feet away. It could not have weighed more than a pound. She had been hit with worse debris in explosions, but the shards rounded her face in split seconds, and she shook her head.

 

There was satisfaction and terror- hers or someone else’s it was too strong- before she heard the _ZAP_. Meltdown skittered somewhere outside of her visual field. There was not much relief in the realization, though, because for a moment all Sidestep understood was that Meltdown’s flak jacket had been camouflage green and her cargo pants a hideous yellow.

 

The world was in color.

 

And _fire was in her eye_.

 

Her groan quickly pitched to a scream, chest seizing. She began to wipe and then claw at her face, gloves trying to mitigate the damage. The curb caught her heel and she spun as she tripped. Granite bit into her knees, unrepentantly smooth, slightly cool. She leaned down, dragging her face against the cold for relief of some kind, for escape, for privacy. It was not enough to undo the intractable blaze in her eye, her eyes.

 

Hands clenched her shoulders, a moment of vertigo as she was turned. She covered her face. God, if she could see, then _they_ could see. Hands grabbed her wrists and pulled her away as she screamed wordlessly, fighting every inch- _don’tlookdon’tlookdon’tsee_.

 

It was the Marshal’s voice, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Move your hands.” She couldn’t. There was a sharp tug, and her wrists moved like so much wet paper.

 

Charge hovered above her in color, closer than she had ever seen him before. She counted three beads of sweat on his brow before she blinked and forgot entirely. He was all the colors of the earth- brown skin, brown eyes, dark hair, wet with effort. And worry, so much worry, pulling at his lips, anchoring his eyes, as loud as words, as clear as thoughts.

 

 _Ohhhhh_ , she ached, foot uselessly scraping against the ground for purchase. Charge’s gloved hands held her wrists fast while she gasped against the pain, moaning like a wounded beast. Her vision was getting blurry. Steel was there, then, and Sidestep tried to hide her face from him in her own shoulder.

 

Somewhere behind him Anathema parroted, “Don’t look! Don’t see! Don’t look at me!”

 

“Anathema!” Charge shouted, cutting through the broadcast. He turned back to Sidestep with too quick understanding.

 

“Open your eyes,” Steel barked, and she did. She was ready to die. They had seen her face. Others would know her face. They would find her. Her eyes fixed on Steel’s flat expression as he opened a bottle of water and a packet of something she could not decipher. “Keep them open.” Easier said than done. One of Charge’s hands twisted just enough to twine his fingers through hers, and she found herself clutching his palm just as fiercely. A second later something doused her wretched skin. Water flowed into her eyes, somehow feeling dry, and over her face, slippery like soap. The pain loosened its grip marginally. Charge must have felt her relax because the hand around her wrist loosened. She reached for her face, only to hear Steel’s command, as hard as his title, “ _Don’t_ touch it.”

 

_She couldn’t. She didn’t know how. How to obey. She was too young. Too ordinary. Too damn young._

 

Not her thoughts. Too many thoughts circling her head like The Birds. Anathema’s. Some of Steel’s. Civilians were nearing from where they had been hiding. She could feel their anxious approach.

 

“I got you,” Charge kept saying. There was another squeeze of her hand, anchoring her in place. She closed her eyes, blinking hard until his hand disappeared. Two arms slipped beneath her and her stomach dropped in a rising motion, beckoning her eyes open. Charge’s hand was searching for hers again, and she let him find her. He curled her close enough that she was tucked in tight against his chest, face hidden.

 

“…Ortega?” she asked pathetically.

 

“They won’t see,” he croaked, too wrung out for humor.

 

“Keep blinking, Sidestep,” Steel reminded her, but his tone was gentler.

 

They bounced along for a few hundred feet, darting around building corners with an attempt at stealth. Her mind was flayed to pieces with fear and pain. What had gone wrong? They approached a van, and Anathema got the door open so that Charge never had to break speed. Charge arranged her body into a seat, and she was distantly aware of a belt strapped across her chest. They were off before either Ranger had a chance to sit.

 

“We’re heading back to HQ,” his quiet voice assured her. Breath fluttered in her lungs, air over her chin, and sense into her head. What was she doing? In a van with the Rangers? They had seen her face. All three of them could recreate it. Even if she had been powerful enough to re-arrange memories, Charge was immune. They had established that almost from the beginning of their partnership. For all she knew, they were about to drop her off at the latest federal branch office. “Hey,” he soothed, and she turned to him involuntarily, “We’ve got you.” He was still holding her hand.

 

“Yeah, you’ve got me,” she snapped, pulling free. But the words were weak to her own ears, too stripped down and pained. Her face was burning with frustration, with fear, and she felt tears dragging their way past her eyelids. She was such an idiot.

 

“Sidestep,” Charge said carefully, right next to her ear. She almost startled at the closeness, and could not but face him. His voice was quiet, firm. “We’re the good guys, and we’re not- _I’m_ not going to let anything happen to you, okay?” His fingers found her limp hand and squeezed it, then did not let go. After a few deep breaths, she squeezed back.

 

Such an idiot.

 

She tried to breathe slowly, exhale to the count of five. She made it to one before her chest spasmed, but she kept going. Kept trying. The pain in her eyes had, not mellowed, exactly, but stayed at a bearable level. She was no longer close to gouging them out.

 

She had made it as far as two in her counting cycle when she felt Anathema’s intention, and then saw the woman approach. She met her knowing gaze head on. New concern was enough to sharpen her focus to understand what Anathema was trying to do. She pulled her head away preemptively.

 

“Sidestep, this… solution is all over you,” Anathema explained, her voice quiet, and still wanting to help. There was a lingering resentment at the earlier bleed over, when she had momentarily lost control, but still the Ranger reached for the plasteel Sidestep suit. What was left of it.

 

“ _No_ ,” Sidestep said flatly, trying to escape.

 

“If you don’t-”

 

“It could eat my skin. I understand. Back off.”

 

“Do you even-”

 

“Leave it,” Steel urged from the driver’s seat.

 

Anathema’s annoyance surged, and for a moment, Sidestep wondered if the Ranger would push. But the fingers abated, and the woman settled back into her seat. There was a modicum- no, not a modicum. She controlled herself, still radiating concern, and annoyance, but she would do no more.

 

Over the course of the next several minutes, the quartet commuted in silence. The adrenaline of the race to the scene (shit, her bike), and the fight itself, the running and the danger. Everything was starting to abate, and aside from the pain in her face, she felt emptied out. What had happened? She had been so woozy for those few seconds. Enough to let her control slip. In the van, her fingers clutched her knee. She was still holding Charge’s hand.

 

“Hey, you okay?” the man in question asked.

 

“Well, let’s see. Was it the acid on my face or the slumped posture that gave me away?”

 

“It’s actually a base,” Anathema clarified, which stalled conversation for all of twenty seconds as Sidestep gripped her knee tighter, careful to loosen her hold on the other hand, but not quite ready to release it.

 

“If you feel like you’re going to faint…” he attempted. She glared at him.

 

“Just because I’m a woman doesn’t mean, I’m some fu- some damsel.”

 

“Well, I didn’t even know you were a woman until you just said… Soo.” He left the explanation hanging. She sighed, almost pinching the bridge of her nose, but certain that she would hear it from Steel if she attempted. “Though I admit, you have pretty nice bone structure, regardless.”

 

She sat up straight. Despite the horror of the situation and the fact that she might be blind in a few hours…

 

“You can’t turn it off, can you?”

 

“I don’t get too many complaints.”

 

“Then you should be grateful I don’t stick around longer than I do, most days,” she sighed, no heat in the words, and dropped her head against the wall of the van. Her face was aching all over, pain radiating down into her neck. Whatever Steel had used to neutralize the stuff on her skin was its own powerful chemical. She had no idea how her body would heal from this kind of assault. If it would heal. There were plenty of scars that said it might go either way.

 

The streets were smoothing as they neared Ranger HQ, more money for infrastructure nearer the city seat of bureaucracy, but traffic was still stop and go, as if the scene with Meltdown had densely compressed everyone farther out. Her head rattled against the van and she reached both hands up to her head to pull back her hood. Or what was left of it. In for a penny, in for a pound. And she was too hot, almost nauseated. She pulled a slow hand through the knot of hair at the back of her head. The curls broke free and hung damp around her face, across the nape of her neck.

 

Silence, and then-

 

Charge let out a low whistle, and followed up, “No wonder it takes you so long to arrive on scene. How much time does it take to put all of that hair under such a small hood?” Her eyes rolled before she could stop them, no extra pain for the effort, and she could sense _and_ see Anathema’s amusement.

 

“I don’t know. How long does it take you to pack all of your recklessness into such a tight suit?” she shot back, missing her vocal distorters. Her voice was too smooth. Not at all imposing.

 

“So you’ve appreciated the fit?” He sounded far too pleased with himself.

 

“How could I not? I’m astounded you don’t trip over your own swagger.”

 

“Tsk. Sidestep, how could I when I learned my best moves from you?”

 

She opened her mouth, and waited for the words to come. And waited. That was pretty smooth.

 

“…Shut the hell up,” she snapped, face flushing despite herself. What an arrogant asshole. And he was still smirking.

 

“God, would you _both_ shut up?” Steel muttered, still managing to be well heard from the front. Anathema climbed into the passenger seat, some of her concern abating with what she considered Sidestep’s suitable recovery.

 

There was a pause before Charge finally spoke, without rancor or apparent care for either of the suggestions directed his way, “Aren’t you a bit young to be so sassy?”

 

Her face flattened, amusement gone, and she felt the old habit of restraint impeding the desire to shake her head. Her walls were building themselves back up. The pain was still intense, but she had grown accustomed enough to it to have some sense of self back.

 

“I don’t know, grandfather, can you hear justifications at your age?”

 

He frowned at her question, and she began to smirk, before he asked directly, “How long are you going to keep deflecting?” The smirk wiped from her face as she crossed her arms in front of her chest protectively.

 

“So you’re senile _and_ deaf. Must be hard to age so quickly.”

 

He stared at her with a flat expression. She could not read his thoughts, but she could read his eyes. He was worried, and… guilty? She glanced away, unwilling to see more. It seemed clear to her that they both knew who would have been hurt if she had not acted. And she could not find it within herself to regret the decision.

 

“Where’d you learn to fight?”

 

Until Charge started speaking again.

 

“I watched a lot of Dragon Ball Z growing up.”

 

“Dios mio ayudame…”

 

The van continued rocking back and forth. When it seemed like he was content with the answer, or at least not going to push further, Sidestep continued her cyclic breathing. It helped the pain, and it helped her annoyance. She managed a five-count exhale. Charge did not mean her ill, that much she knew. She did not feel safe, exactly, but none of the Rangers, for all their frequent pomp and bombast, had let her down in the years she had known them. Maybe… Maybe it _was_ time to share something. She would never be one of them, would never wear their blue and smile and wave for cameras with her face exposed, but maybe- she could build some trust.

 

The van lurched down a slope and finally came to a stop.

 

The sound of a door sliding open turned her head. Charge stood up from his seat as she fidgeted with her belt buckle. Her mind made up, before he could grab at her, she stuck her hand out.

 

“Oh, _now_ you want this Grandpa’s help,” he groused, but he held her hand as tightly as he had before, tucking it into his elbow. She even felt his other hand over her scalp to keep her from bumping the roof of the van.

 

He stepped out of the vehicle and helped her descent. The garage’s fluorescent lights were bright overhead, and her eyes had not stopped streaming since they first started. She felt more than saw Anathema moving away. She could hear Steel doing so. Charge pulled her to follow and she allowed her hand to rest securely in the crook of his arm.

 

Before they caught up to the others, she turned her head to him and pitched her voice, “Thank you.”

 

When he met her face again, his smirk had mellowed into a smile, and he shook his head, “Thank _you_.”

 

-

 

Two days later she opened the palm-sized jar Anathema had slipped to her that morning and stared out at the hazy hills beyond Los Diablos. They were only on the fourth floor or so, but it was still high enough to be a privileged view, and the hills were hazy with smog, not because of her eyes. She smiled despite herself.

 

Her bike was nestled comfortably in the garage below, mostly free from indirect damage Meltdown and Pickup had caused. Both were in the custody of the LDPD, and Sidestep had spent the past two nights sleeping in the relative safety of Ranger HQ. She was kind of getting used to the squishy couch. Steel still looked like he was chewing glass every time he saw her, but this morning he had looked at least like it was flavored glass. Anathema had mostly been scarce since the fight, content to stay if there was not a major threat. It was Ortega who she found keeping her company in the downtime, as if the Marshal had no work of his own to do. As if now that he had seen her face he could not get enough of it. Weirdo.

 

She turned just enough so that her reflection in the glass would be out of her line of sight and began to apply the gel in the jar over her burns. Touch stung for just a second, then cooled into a greedy numbness. She focused on breathing.

 

“Doc says the skin is gonna grow back just fine,” Ortega called from behind her. She did not jump, despite not being able to sense him. Neither did she face him, content to nod. “Hair, too,” he continued, coming to join her on the common room sectional. “Though I guess that would be less concerning since you still have enough hair for two people.”

 

She snorted, “Jealous?”

 

“Hell, yes, I am,” he retorted without hesitation. She eyed him, his grin, until she could not hold back a small smile of her own.

 

It was kind of nice, to have someone worried, even for something as… as _minor_ as vanity. Her body still functioned. More importantly, her mind had not lost its edge. The exposed patch of scalp, the missing eyebrow… She pointedly did not look for her reflection. Those were slightly less concerning than the red and pink blisters marking her face in exactly the splash pattern Meltdown had given her. If she had to be in public, people would stare and notice. Then again, maybe she would scar and be less familiar to anyone from the Heartland.

 

“Thanks,” she said, once she realized he was waiting for a response. She admitted, “I’m less worried about scarring than you might think.”

 

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But I think I’m getting a pretty objective reading on your self-preservation. For someone so adamant about keep her identity secret, it seems like you’re less worried about what happens to the body underneath.”

 

“Pot meet kettle?” she huffed. He smirked, and though his jaw tensed, he remained silent.

 

She stared at him, at his damned insight, knew she was frowning and still couldn’t stop herself. He was close to the truth. So close to reality, even if he did not understand why. Could not understand why. She swallowed hard. But he was still looking at her, and then he spoke, “For what it’s worth, I like your face.”

 

She rolled her eyes, like _that_ , of all things, mattered, but she was grinning as she shot back, “You like any face that’s looking at you.”

 

“That’s fair. Doesn’t mean I don’t have standards.”

 

Two days out and she could still feel his hand squeezing hers and would never forget the litany of _I’ve got you_ s that he had repeated to her until she could breathe. Her heart thumped loudly behind her ribs, and she looked away. What a compassionate, honorable idiot.

 

She silently capped the jar and stood, dropping it and her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. Or someone else’s hoodie. Yeah, he was an idiot. But he was not the only one.

 

“That’s my cue to go,” she announced, making her way to the door. They both knew she did not just mean the room.

 

She felt, rather than witnessed, him leap over the back of the couch, before he slipped into step with her, “What already?”

 

“You thought I was staying?” she asked incredulously. His face was too sincere. “I’ve been here two days. That’s two days too long.”

 

“Too long for what? What do you think is going to happen?”

 

_They’ll find me. They’ll get me. One of you will give me up. One of you will start asking questions. One of you will start finding answers._

 

“Anything could happen,” she responded with a pronounced shrug.

 

He huffed a sigh, “That’s great. We fix you up and now you just go.”

 

She felt a hard wall settle around her heart at the accusation. Well, not an accusation. It was true. She was leaving, and it wasn’t because she wasn’t grateful. It was not because she did not see the appeal in staying. She had had a better two days, not worrying about what she was going to eat, or how well the door locked, than she had in years. But she couldn’t stay.

 

“Charge,” she began, sighing.

 

“ _Ortega_ ,” he interrupted, and she stared at up at him. The smile he gave her was slightly sad, but still genuine. This was a new flavor to the Marshal. “Or Ricardo if you prefer.” And damn if the way he rolled his “R’s” didn’t make her feel human. He grinned then, as if the last few minutes of back and forth had not occurred, “I know you know my name.”

 

“…Ortega,” she said at last, and he was radiant.

 

Before she could stop herself, she stuck her hand out between them and offered, “Becerra.”

 

He grinned like the world had opened up before him, brown eyes smiling with such sincerity that she could not feel bad about sharing, no matter how stupid the decision. She shook her head again. She would not stay, could not stay, but maybe, eventually, this partnership with the Rangers would work out. Maybe sometime in the future she could admit to them who- what she was. Maybe they would accept her entirely.

 

For now, she would start with this, “My name is Lirelle Becerra.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading :D
> 
> @quatraquartz at Tumblr got me into this fandom, and we both have some serious feelings about the "golden years" of Sidestep's career. (๑◕︵◕๑)
> 
> Title comes from a borrowed lyric in Bailen's "[I Was Wrong](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SMPOe5LlFws)."


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